Emma Darcy: The Secret Mistress

Claudia would undoubtedly wait submissively.

She did everything... submissively.

Luis grimaced. Sometimes he suspected it was an act, deliberately put on to give him the sense of being on top. Respected. Honoured. King of his kingdom. But, so what? At least he knew where he was with Claudia.

He dropped the wedges of lime into his glass, mashed sugar into them, added the ice and drowned the lot with Caipirinha. Sweet and sour—like life, he thought. The telephone rang as he stirred the drink. Carrying the glass with him, he moved to pick up the nearest receiver, cynically wondering if his mother had found a danger-free way out of La Paz for him.

“Luis Martinez,” he rolled out carelessly.

“Luis, it’s Alan Wright. Please...don’t hang up. It’s taken me hours to track you down and I desperately need your help.”

The quick, taut plea stilled what would normally have been an automatic reaction. Luis had no wish to see, hear, or have any contact with the man whose sister had taken him for no more than a lump of tasty Latin meat. The heat of deeply lacerated pride instantly burned through him.

“What kind of help?” he snapped, angry with himself for even hesitating over cutting off his former friend.

“Luis, I have a tour group caught here in La Paz. We were due to fly to Buenos Aires yesterday. God knows when the airport will be reopened. They’re frightened, panicky, and some are suffering from altitude sickness. I need a bus to get them out. I’ll drive it. I thought you might be able to provide it.”

A bus.

It conjured up old memories—a much younger, wilder Alan, driving a beaten-up bus through the Amazon jungle to the mining operation where Luis had been sent for safekeeping, away from the troubles in Argentina. Alan had worked there for six months, more or less swapping his mechanical skills for the spare parts he needed to get his bus roadworthy enough to set up his own tour business.

An Australian, in love with South America—nothing was going to stop Alan Wright from selling it to tourists back home. Camping trips to start with, he’d decided. Then gradually he’d build up to the bigger money stuff. Luis had admired his initiative and determination, liked his cheerful good nature, and enjoyed his company. For nine years they’d maintained an infrequent but always congenial contact with each other. If Alan hadn’t introduced his sister...

“Is Shontelle with you?”

The question slipped out, unconsidered and loaded with a long, pent-up hostility that hissed down the line.

No denial. Nothing but a fraught silence that emphatically underlined the division of their interests.

“Is she?” Luis demanded harshly, uncaring of what the other man thought, knowing he had the power to ruthlessly cut their connection without any comeback.

“Goddammit, Luis! I’ll pay you for the bus. Can’t you just deal with me?” Alan exploded, tension and urgency ripping through every word.

She was with him.

More than pride started burning through Luis Angel Martinez. Every cell of his body was hit by an electric charge. Adrenalin shot through his bloodstream. Even the sense of his sexuality leapt into powerful prominence...sharply revitalised, wanting, needing, craving the satisfaction of wringing something more from the woman who’d dismissed all they’d shared as a brief bout of lust, come to the end of its run.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“At the Europa Hotel,” came the quick, hopeful answer. “As luck would have it, just around the corner from the Plaza.”

“Very convenient!” Luis smiled. It was a smile that would have chilled the heart of anyone who saw it. “What’s the size of your tour group, Alan?”

“Thirty-two, including me.”

“I can get you a suitable bus...”

“Great!” A gush of relief.

“...And have it at your hotel, ready to go in the morning...”

“I knew if anyone could do it, you could.” Warm gratitude.

“...On one condition.”

Silence. On edge again. “What is it?” Wary.

Luis didn’t give a damn about Alan’s feelings. His friendship had probably been as self-serving as his sister’s association with him. After all, for a foreign tour operator, Luis Angel Martinez was a contact worth having in South America. He could open doors.

And shut them.

“Shontelle will have to come to my suite at the Plaza to negotiate the deal with me,” he stated blandly. “The sooner the better, for your purposes.”

“You can’t be serious!” Alan burst out. “There’s a curfew on. Army tanks are trundling around the streets and trigger-happy soldiers are everywhere. A woman alone, breaking curfew...it’s too dangerous, Luis.”

So was driving a bus out of here, Luis thought. The farmers were in revolt. They’d be blockading all the roads from La Paz. Alan was obviously prepared to take risks to get his people out, probably counting on his skill as a good talker with a dab hand at appropriate bribery. Which he could use tonight, as well, if need be. His plea on Shontelle’s behalf left Luis totally unmoved.

“You can escort her from hotel to hotel, if you like. The distance is very short and the road that links us is a cul-de-sac, hardly the place for a tank or soldiers on guard duty,” he pointed out.

“I can’t leave the group. Shontelle can’t, either. The women need her to...”

“There is a side entrance to the Plaza from the steps leading up to Prado 16 de Julio. I’ll have a man posted at the door to let her in. Let’s say...half an hour from now?”

Luis set the receiver down with firm decisiveness. He smiled again as he jiggled the ice in his drink. A responsibility to others often led to paths one wouldn’t take, given an absolutely free choice. Because he was his mother’s son, he would end up married to Claudia Gallardo. Because Shontelle was Alan Wright’s sister, she would end up in this suite tonight.

With him.

And he would take a great deal of pleasure in stripping her of more than her clothes!

CHAPTER TWO

SHONTELLE saw her brother’s jaw clench. He literally gnashed his teeth as he slammed the telephone receiver down. The violent action caused her heart to leap out of the frozen stasis that had held it for the duration of the call. The resulting pump of blood kicked reason into her mind, clearing it of the dark cloud of memories.

“What did he want?” she asked. It was obvious from the conversation that Luis had at least considered procuring the bus. It was certainly possible for him to do so. The Martinez family had fingers in many pies right across the continent; agriculture, mining, cement works, oil and gas, transport...

“Forget it!” Alan’s hand sliced the air with negative vehemence. “I’ll try something else.”

There was nothing else. Shontelle shook her head over the mess of notes on the table. They’d already been down every other avenue. The usual help Alan could tap into was not forthcoming.

She watched him steam around the sitting room of the suite they were sharing, a big man chopping up the space around her, making it feel claustrophobic with the sense of failure. Getting accommodation in The Europa, a relatively new five-star hotel, had been a coup for this tour. Now it seemed like a prison. Everyone in the tour group had lost their pleasure in its luxury, anxieties building with being trapped here. More bad news could make soothing fears and frayed tempers a very difficult, if not impossible exercise.

Alan always fought against imparting bad news to his tour groups, especially when there was no good news to make it more palatable. Normally he was a very cool operator, highly skilled at lateral thinking whenever a crisis arose, as it frequently did in South America. The ability to be flexible was paramount to bringing off a successful tour and Alan was always prepared to come up with an alternative schedule. But this time he’d found himself blocked at every turn.